


Stolen Hearts

by sleepingbunny



Category: Renegades (1989)
Genre: Camping, Cryptids, Established Relationship, Fluff, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-08
Updated: 2020-10-08
Packaged: 2021-03-08 01:14:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,734
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26887189
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sleepingbunny/pseuds/sleepingbunny
Summary: Buster and Hank go camping.
Relationships: Buster McHenry/Hank Storm
Comments: 4
Kudos: 7





	Stolen Hearts

“Whose idea was this, anyway?” Buster grumbled, pulling Hank’s old flannel blanket tighter around his shoulders. The night was chilly, and the stars twinkled crisply in the velvety sky. He had to admit it was beautiful out here, but it was also cold. He could be in front of a warm fireplace, sipping whiskey and watching the game, but instead he was here, out in the wilderness with only Hank to protect him. Hank was pretty capable, but could he and Buster fight a bear if one happened to come along? He didn’t think so.

“I don’t see you helping,” Hank said, eyeing him from his place next to the beginnings of a campfire.

“We’ve been over this. I’m just a city boy, remember? I can kick ass in a bar fight and get you across town in fifteen minutes – _with_ traffic – but I don’t know anything about this wilderness shit.” His expression was grumpier than usual.

“Which is why you wanted to do it,” Hank reminded him. “To prove you were tough.” And Buster was so _cute_ when he wanted to seem tough, which is why Hank had agreed.

“I _am_ ,” Buster insisted, defiantly throwing the blanket off his shoulders and walking over to Hank. “Looks like you’ve already got a good fire started. See, you didn’t even need my help.” He gave Hank’s shoulder a friendly slap.

Hank didn’t know whether he wanted to smack or kiss the triumphant grin off Buster’s face, an all-too-familiar feeling. “No, I guess I didn’t,” he said calmly. He wasn’t going to rise to Buster’s bait so easily.

“So what do we do now?” Buster asked, holding his hands in front of the growing fire. “This may shock you, Hank, but I never went on any camping trips as a kid. None of those fancy summer camps, either.”

“I understand that it’s tradition among your people to roast hot dogs and marshmallows while singing campfire songs and telling ghost stories,” Hank said.

Buster glared at him. “I am not singing.”

“It’s your camping trip,” Hank said with a nonchalant shrug. He knew it drove Buster crazy when he acted like he didn’t care.

“Okay, then I request some food,” Buster said, looking at Hank expectantly. “You brought hot dogs, right? I got the s’mores stuff.”

“I did,” Hank said, reaching into his cooler. He tossed the pack of hot dogs at Buster. “But you’re making them.”

“Aw, man-“

“It’s only fair,” Hank said. “I’ll provide the entertainment.”

Buster was surprised at how much fun he was having. Sure, it was colder than he’d expected and he had to make dinner himself, but the night air smelled amazing, full of pine and mystery, and he had Hank all to himself.

…They _were_ alone, weren’t they?

“Hey, Hank? Is there anything we have to worry about out here? Like bears or anything?” he asked, trying to sound casual as he slowly turned the hot dogs over the fire.

“Probably not around here,” Hank said. Buster had just given him a wonderful opportunity. “But there is one thing… you probably don’t want to hear a Lakota legend though, right? That ‘boring old shit’?”

“Hey, I said I was sorry,” Buster said, his voice taking on a hard edge. “I told you I respect your culture, okay? I’ve really been trying.”

“I know,” Hank said. There was a soft, genuinely grateful smile on his face. “This story might be too upsetting, though. Especially at night.”

Buster snorted. “What, do you think I’d get scared? I’ve seen some shit, Hank. I’ve been shot, remember?”

“I know. But I just want you to know that I am not driving us back tonight.”

“Don’t worry,” Buster said, rolling his eyes as he handed Hank his hot dog. The wind blew through the trees, a faint howl that was barely audible. Buster did his best to suppress a shiver, hoping Hank hadn’t seen. Why were they sitting on opposite sides of the fire?

“I’ll tell it,” Hank said with a determined nod. “There’s a legend among my people about this part of the woods. A sort of… I guess you would call it a supernatural creature, is said to roam around here. It’s called the Crimson Snatcher.”

Buster narrowed his eyes. “That sounds fake.”

“Buster, that’s what it’s called, and it’s very important to my people,” Hank said. His voice was calm and even. “I thought you were going to take me seriously.”

“I am,” Buster said. “Tell me about the Crimson Snatcher.” He made a hurry-up gesture with one hand while using the other to stuff his mouth with food.

“It’s an ancient legend,” Hank said. His voice was soft and there were tiny fires reflected in his deep brown eyes. He paused and looked up, his eyes meeting Buster’s. The air felt suddenly heavy.

“Yeah? What does it do?” Buster asked with his mouth full, his loud voice shattering the intensity of the moment.

“Buster, please,” Hank said. “Just let me tell this.”

Buster nodded, and for once he didn’t have anything else to say.

“This spirit, this… creature, was said to roam these lands. It depends on who you ask, but most people agree that it looked like what you’d call a dragon, with leathery red wings and a horse’s head, and giant claws to snatch its prey from the ground. Whenever a child or animal went missing, people would say it was the Crimson Snatcher. I heard it sometimes from my parents.” He smiled faintly. “’Don’t stay out late or the Crimson Snatcher will get you,’ that sort of thing.”

Buster laughed, a quiet huff that said he knew that sort of thing all too well.

“It’ll eat anything if it’s desperate, but the only thing that truly satisfies its intense hunger is human hearts. People tried to be clever by putting out animal hearts for it, thinking that would appease it so it would move on to somewhere else. A man named Tom Fox put three pig hearts on a platter, like he was serving it a fancy meal. His friends laughed at him, but Tom took it very seriously. A few nights later, Tom was found lying on the ground in front of his own house, his heart ripped out of his chest.”

Hank was pleased to see that Buster’s lips were pressed together in a tight line, his hands clasped around his knees and his eyes wide.

“That’s just a story, thought, right?” Hank said. “Who knows if Tom Fox even existed. There is one thing I _do_ know, though. I’ve heard the beating of huge wings late at night, bigger than any bird. I’ve heard the faint whistling, almost like the whinny of a horse if all that remained was its skull.”

“Buster,” Hank said, looking right into his wide blue eyes. His tone was much more serious and intense than it had been a few seconds ago. “I want you to stay calm, okay? But as soon as I told that last part, I noticed something moving in the shadows behind you. Stay still.”

“Oh my god,” Buster yelled, his loud voice piercing the quiet of the woods. He jumped up so quickly he stumbled backwards, and his hands clutched at the air as he struggled not to lose his balance. “Hank, help me!” He let out another cry as his body collided with the hard ground.

He sat up when he heard Hank’s laughter, a rare sound at the best of times and completely alien in a situation like this.

“You shittin’ me?” he roared, his face contorting with rage. 

“Actually, yes,” Hank said. The rare expression of mirth on his face added a whole new dimension of handsomeness to his face that Buster was not too furious to notice.

“You _asshole_ ,” Buster yelled, standing up so quickly he almost lost his balance again. “I knew you were full of shit!” He slapped angrily at his jeans, looking more like he was trying to crush the leaves to death than brush them off.

“Buster, I’m sorry,” Hank said. He walked over to Buster and put an arm around him, surprised that it wasn’t instantly shrugged off in anger. “I really didn’t think you’d fall for that for so long.”

“I was trying to be _respectful_ ,” Buster said. “And you took advantage of me.” He shook his head, and Hank was relieved to see a smile forming.

“I got you though, didn’t I,” Hank said.

“For a _second_ ,” Buster said. “I’ll admit I was a little scared for just a second.”

“Yes, just for a second,” Hank said indulgently. “Let’s make those s’mores you’ve been telling me about.”

They spent the rest of the evening side by side as they discussed more lighthearted subject matter, Buster eating marshmallow after marshmallow. Hank watched him with a smile he didn’t try to hide, loving the way his hair shone gold in the firelight.

“What?” Buster asked, mouth full of s’mores as he searched Hank’s face. “Still laughing at my reaction to that stupid story you told?”

“No,” Hank said. “But you have something-“ He gestured to his upper lip. 

He grabbed Buster’s hand, stopping it before it could make it to the melted marshmallow in his mustache. “No, let me get it.” He leaned closer and licked at the sticky sweetness. Buster made a whining sound deep in his throat and Hank pressed himself closer to him. He tasted the sugar as they shared a molten marshmallow-and-chocolate kiss.

Buster’s cheeks were flushed when they broke apart, his breathing heavy. “We should do this more often,” he said.

“You’re admitting that you like camping?” Hank asked with an amused smirk.

“Parts of it are alright,” Buster said. “But maybe next time we can do this in your backyard or something.”

“Where there are no monsters, you mean?” Hank asked.

That remark earned Hank a rough shove on the shoulder. “Yeah, except for _you_ ,” Buster said. “Crimson Snatcher, my ass….”

Hank just smiled and leaned in toward Buster, wrapping his arms around him and burying his face in the crook of his neck. He breathed deeply, taking in the beautifully mingled scents of the campfire, the sweet night air, and the man he loved. It was a perfect moment, a perfect night, and though Buster could be insufferably annoying sometimes, he wouldn’t trade any of it for the world.

**Author's Note:**

> I think this was unconsciously inspired by the Camp Monsters podcast? If you enjoy cryptids and campfires, check it out!


End file.
